


House Drawers

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 02:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hot air, underwear, and Jim reaching out to Blair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House Drawers

**Author's Note:**

> A phrase that wouldn't leave me alone and an image that popped into my head resulted in this odd slice of J/B domestic life. Just had to get it off of my chest.

## House Drawers

by JC

Author's webpage: <http://www.skeeter63.org/jayci/>

Author's disclaimer: The characters from the TV series "The Sentinel" are not my property, and I am not making money off of them. That's all I have to say.

* * *

House Drawers by J.C. 

Later, much later, Jim decided that it had to have been a conspiracy. Or perhaps the practical joke of some supreme being with a lot of patience, and a strange sense of humor. Patience enough to have waited over three years, observing the ongoing drama that was the changing relationship between Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg. The humor part came in the fact that somehow it had all come down to... underwear. 

The conspiracy? Well, maybe it had really just been a peculiar convergence of circumstances. That coincidental twist of fate where everything just hesitantly, and awkwardly slides perfectly into place. Starting with the weather, segueing into an in-depth study of underwear, until one morning Jim had found himself, in a very real way, at the goal line with one hand in the end zone. 

* * *

It had been hot. Way hotter than usual. Not just hot, but humid. _Hot_ and _humid_. The occasional breezes that drifted from over the water that week were so heavy with heated moisture that they brought no relief. 

Once, Jim had tried to make it through the day by dialing down his tactile sense, hoping to reduce the clammy, stifling effects of the high temperatures. That had only succeeded in making him lightheaded and slightly nauseous. Continually breathing in the thick air, while feeling somewhat disconnected from his body hadn't been a pleasant sensation, or a solution to his problem. 

The air conditioning at the police department had maliciously breathed its last, and after a few days of suffering with the rest of the detectives, even the dreaded mall, with its promise of blessed coolness, had been a temptation that Jim had been unable to pass up. Stolen moments at lunchtime were satisfying enough to counteract the jumbled sensory assault of the increased numbers that had flocked there to also beat the heat. 

The fan in the loft did nothing more than sluggishly move the oppressive air around in the enclosed space like slow-shifting atmospheric blocks. But even so, it offered an advantage over the stuffy Major Crimes bullpen, and Jim had taken to slipping home as early as possible, where at least he could get paperwork done in near-naked comfort. 

Blair had been disappearing, supposedly to the University, taking advantage of cool, quiet alcoves in the various libraries. Or maybe, Jim speculated, he was really lying naked somewhere while some willing acquaintance rubbed ice all over his sweaty body. Either way, Blair had been pretty scarce, and Jim would strip down to almost nothing, lie out on a cool, clean sheet on the floor, and guzzle glass after glass of cold water while he read case files. 

So, truthfully, the heat had been partially to blame. Because one of those hot mornings, Sandburg and Ellison crossed paths in that well-worn passage from bedroom/bathroom to kitchen, and Jim was sure that he had never seen Blair quite that naked before. 

In all of the years that he had known him, all of the time that they had lived together, Jim had seen Blair in many states of undress. But even coming out of the shower, Blair usually emerged from the steamy environs of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, another draped around his neck (the ends covering his chest), and, more often than not, rubbing vigorously at his hair with yet another. Covered in yards of absorbent cotton, even while leaving a damp pile of them behind in a corner on the bathroom floor. 

Jim had always wondered, but never commented on (outside of the habitual grumbling about the thoughtless habit of leaving damp towels on the floor in the first place), what sort of involved bathing ritual Blair practiced that required him to actually _need_ that many towels. But that phenomenon remained a mystery he decided he was better off not solving. 

Normally, Blair would be wearing various combinations of clothing, most times in layers, but that one morning, he stumbled from his bedroom just as Jim was leaving the bathroom (the constant side effect from drinking all of that water), and Jim was unprepared for the sight. 

Not because it was the first morning that Blair had woken up there since the heatwave had begun. Not because of the wild, tangled mass of hair, or the weirdly unfocused look of forced concentration, or the dragging before-coffee pace as Blair made his way past, but the fact that he was wearing just a pair of boxers, and nothing else. Faded old boxers. A washed out plaid, worn thin, with a stretched-out waistband and stretched-wide leg holes, and almost permanent wrinkles in the material at that crease where leg meets groin, from years of being scrunched up by Blair sitting, or maybe sleeping curled over into himself. 

'House drawers'. 

That's what Blair called them, those various pairs of underwear that he wore to bed, or under his sweats when bumming around the house, said in an affected lazy drawl, with an equally lazy smile in place. A phrase that he claimed he got from an old girlfriend -- Lana, the Psychology major from Virginia that he dated in his senior year of undergrad. 

It didn't seem funny at all to Jim that he had that sort of knowledge about Blair. He'd been in enough close quartered situations with groups of men (and a few one-on-one) that, although a rather private individual, he wasn't exactly modest or prone to be shocked. And, after all, he had come by the information legitimately in the course of handling laundry duty. 

Jim didn't think of himself as a 'neat freak', despite the all too frequently overheard comments of those that knew him, but he was orderly. And, in some instances, fairly particular about that order. Towels hanging in the bathroom didn't have to be lined up 'just so', but he did prefer them to actually _make_ it to the towel bar. He wasn't against leaving things lying around... his shoes by the couch, or his Jags cap on the coffee table, but he didn't tend to allow them to take up residence in those spots. And, sometimes, he was just more comfortable when things were done his way. 

Blair's hit and run style of habitation had been an adjustment. But, even though he bitched about Blair pitching in with the domestic upkeep, considering it only fair that a roommate help maintain order (although he had long given up on that Sandburg zone behind the French doors), there were certain chores that he preferred to do himself. Such as cleaning out the refrigerator, scrubbing the tub, and, especially, the laundry. 

It wasn't that Blair had inadvertently turned all of Jim's precious white socks pink, or shrunk any of his favorite sweaters in the dryer, but Jim was the first to admit that he had a particular way that he liked things _folded_. Right down to his own pairs of boxers, and his dozens of pairs of socks. 

The first time that Blair had offered to do Jim's laundry along with his own, Jim had been pleased with how nicely Blair was getting with the program. But, when he had climbed the stairs to his bedroom, he had cringed at the piles of clothing not folded _quite_ right. He had been grateful that at least they hadn't just been dumped on his bed in a jumbled, heated pile, or left to wrinkle uncontrollably clumped in the basket that he insisted Blair use, or even worse, in a garbage bag like Blair used for his own things. With a sigh, he had immediately refolded each item. 

Particular though he may have been, Jim was also reasonable enough not to expect Blair to take 'folding' lessons, so he had quietly taken over laundry duty. He had been prepared to override any objections that Blair might make (although none had been forthcoming), with snappy comebacks about not wanting to wait forever for Blair to replenish the supply of clean towels, or how difficult it was for a Sentinel to be constantly assaulted by the funky odor of several piles of a Guide's dirty clothes. 

So, just as Blair had slowly taken over cooking duties, despite the tendency in the beginning for them to cook for themselves, and then to alternate the responsibility, Jim took care of the laundry. And while that meant that Blair was the one to supply them with most of their sustenance, outside of those not-as-frequent take-out orders, Jim felt that since he was doing load after load of towels (as if a family of six inhabited the loft, rather than two grown men), things were pretty much even. 

The first time he had separated their clothes, folding Blair's things just as carefully as he did his own, he had noticed the half-dozen or so old pairs of boxers. They weren't ratty or torn, but just _worn_. So much so that Jim had wondered how they had made it through the vigorous cycles of the washer and the dryer. And, even after the agitated, wet world of a warm water wash, and the tossing tumult of a spin-dry, they still seemed to retain an odd lived-in look as if Sandburg had just stepped out of them. 

When he had teasingly asked Blair about them, cracking a joke about wasting soap and water on such remnants, and tracking Naomi down to send Blair some underwear for his next birthday, Blair had told him about Lana. Someone he had spent almost a whole semester with, sharing their time, and their bodies, and a small off-campus apartment. After she had gotten in the habit of nabbing well-worn pairs of his boxers, lounging around in those and nothing else, he had found himself 'recycling' them. The older pairs set apart to wear in relaxed moments at home, and the newer ones saved for out in the world. 

Jim understood about old favorites, although his didn't tend to extend to his underwear, or his white socks. Those he replaced on a regular basis, thanks to some vestige of home/military training embedded in his subconscious. But he had a few caps that had seen better days. And that certain T-shirt that was always the first one to be worn after the laundry was done. And one pair of jeans that he had had forever, that fit just right -- right _there_ and right _there_ \-- and were a secret source of pleasure, knowing that they still fit at all after all those years. 

So, he had simply rolled his eyes, and handed over the stack of clean, folded clothes, and tried not to think about the various shapes, front and back, that had served to wear thin the boxers in question in the first place. 

Over time, he had seen various incarnations of the 'house drawers'. Newer pairs becoming old, older ones disappearing... it soothed him in a strange way, showing the passage of time, but also underscoring Blair's continued presence in his life. 

The sudden appearance of the boxer-briefs threw him. There were a baker's dozen in an assortment of colors, and their existence was a source of pain that cut deeper than he would ever have thought. 

He had been around Blair enough to relegate (for the most part) certain input from the younger man to that comforting fabric of background information that he lived with everyday. Like others filtered out the hum of the refrigerator, or barely noticed the familiar air of their homes, he did the same with the heartbeat, and the scents of skin and hair that were associated with Blair Sandburg. The sweaty smell of Blair-worn clothing was ingrained, barely noticeable on those days when he did laundry. It was the occasional whiff of various perfumes, and particular dusky, intimate odors that would capture his attention, but only briefly, before he pushed his focus away from them. 

The boxer-briefs had proven to be a difficult obstacle. Because as he tossed them in the washing machine that first time, he was assaulted by the sharp spice of a cologne, or some sort of aftershave, plus the unmistakable, and unwelcome musk of what he knew wasn't Blair's personal scent. 

Different underwear, different smell, something different he unwittingly learned about Blair's life. Though, theoretically, the revelation about Blair's sexuality didn't bother him, he still felt that somehow he had taken a hit below the belt. 

He grew to dread the sight of those pieces of navy, or gray, or black material. Even, months later, when they no longer came out of the hamper with those telltale scents clinging to them, and he knew that whatever relationship Blair had been in was over. He hoped he never had to hear the story about 'Joe' the 'Assistant History Professor' or whoever it had been, and how he had had a thing for the way Blair's ass and thighs looked in form fitting black cotton. 

And no matter how enticing an image that made, stirring his blood as the picture vividly implanted itself in his head, he was glad that Blair didn't have a pair of them on right then as he passed, and they gave their customary nodding, grunting, first-thing-on-a-lazy-morning greetings. 

But it did cause him to abruptly alter his course. Where a few minutes before he had been planning to head up the stairs, instead he followed Blair to the kitchen. He busied himself getting a glass of juice, and watched as the coffee-maker was plugged in, and a filter, coffee, and water went into the appropriate places, a prelude to that first gurgle and burst of aroma. 

Coffee fiend though he himself was, if he had been thinking coherently, Jim might have teased Blair about how he could even stand the thought of a steaming cup of French Roast in the face of the ongoing heatwave. But, as the cold swallows of whatever blend of fruit that Blair had mixed up that week eased wonderfully down his throat, he could only stare, and try to hold onto his control under the sudden onslaught of his fantasies. 

The air seemed to grow almost unbearably thick, but it had nothing to do with the weather, and everything to do with the waves of longing that flowed from him, so that the very atmosphere grew heavy with need, and heated with arousal. All his own, he was sure. The pull that he felt was so strong that he couldn't imagine how Blair could be unaware of it, but the other man just stood, one hip against the counter, a mug near his hand, watching the coffee pot slowly fill. 

Jim was suddenly so... _hot_ , and he found it oddly surprising. Fresh layers of sweat covered his body, and he could only be amazed by how much the temperature seemed to have risen in so short a time. Moisture was being gently squeezed from his pores, sticky under his arms, trickling down the middle of his back, building up steam between his legs... He was hot and _hard_ , his cock rearranging itself inside of the gym shorts that he wore, wetness collecting at its tip. 

Unbelievably, he felt high. Drunk from the force of his own desire. So intoxicated that the wild, rebellious thoughts that were raging through his mind all seemed to make perfect sense. That he could walk the few feet that separated them, reach out and palm the curve of Blair's ass, and everything would be all right. 

Blair liked men, he reasoned, had been to bed with a man, obviously had felt the strength of a masculine touch below the waist, and he and Blair had already shared _so_ much -- from meals to danger, from work to a home. Shared a life, really. Why couldn't they share such an intimate moment, even if it was just once? Even if it was destined to become a close-kept secret memory, and not a repeated occurrence. What would be wrong with allowing their lives to intersect that way, at that instant... just that one time? 

The scent of the freshly brewed coffee as Blair poured himself a cup was almost orgasmic. From his vantage point just behind and to the left, leaning back against the table, the rest of his juice forgotten, Jim watched... and wanted. 

Wanted to touch... to find out just how smooth Blair's balls would be, to feel the stretch of skin that ran down Blair's spine and see if it was as soft as it looked, to know if each cheek of Blair's ass was equally firm, to explore the hardness of Blair's cock, the wet heat of Blair's mouth, which would be even wetter and hotter after that first sip of coffee. 

As he watched, Blair took a sip, sighed, and then took another, shuddering a little. Probably from the kick of caffeine, Jim thought, but still he briefly considered that maybe it was from the strength of his stare and the incredible heat that had built up in that space. And before he knew it, before he could stop himself, before he could listen to the inner voice that was saying even once would be too much and not enough, he was there.... 

Reaching out, one large palm covering half of Blair's rear, and he realized that he hadn't known the true meaning of heat. His hand burned, branded by the contact with Blair's body through the thin layer of cotton. He squeezed slightly, his fingertips catching in the crack of Blair's ass as he grabbed hold. 

With so much of his brain power concentrating on what his hand was doing, and what his dick was doing inside his shorts, both seemingly of their own free will, Jim didn't know what to make of the fact that Blair had gone completely still. Not jerking away from his touch, but not rocking back into it, either. Motionless, as if not surprised, but unsure which way to go. 

Jim supposed that Blair might have had his own assumptions about the sexuality of a Sentinel, based on Jim's tendency towards denial, and his obvious lack of success with women. In the right textbook, someone could probably look up a classic case of a 'repressed gay man' and find a picture of Jim Ellison. 

But he had made his move, and Blair wasn't stopping him, and his body knew what it wanted, and was willing to take it without waiting for his heart or his mind to catch up. So, he relaxed his grip on Blair's asscheek, slid that hand across, in a slow caress, over the twin mounds, around the hip until his fingers curved around the heated skin of Blair's inner thigh. He snaked an arm around the other man's middle and pulled the yielding body back as close as he could get it. And Blair gasped, his ass fitting itself against the hard presence of Jim's dick, and that sound set Jim free. 

Free to inch a hand up inside the stretched leg of the boxers to fondle the tightening sacs of Blair's balls, registering that they were slightly fuzzy to his touch. Free to grasp the hard length of Blair's cock through the soft material, massaging it with a friction-filled stroke. Free to rub himself against the fine, fine flesh of Blair's ass, setting a rhythm, and creating a sensation that was so much better, so far beyond all of the solo sessions that he'd had in his life combined. And, joyfully, Blair was there, matching the rhythm, stepping it up a notch, one hand gripping the counter, the other gripping Jim's hip, making the most exciting little hissing sounds that reverberated in the head of Jim's dick. 

The moans were Jim's, and he didn't even realize that he had been making them, until the second that he pulled himself out of his shorts, shoving his dick in the dark tunnel between Blair's thighs, and he noticed that the moans had stopped, because he had started cursing in a breathless voice. And he wasn't just hot anymore, he was about to go up in a burst of flame, and he didn't want to go alone. 

He paid attention to every maddeningly sensitive area that he could, trying to bring Blair closer, closer to the same fragile place he was occupying. He leaned down, amazed that he hadn't taken a taste before, and licked a salty patch of skin behind Blair's ear, nosing into the damp, sweaty strands of curly hair, filling his senses so completely that he was coming almost before he was aware of it. So startled that he couldn't even cry out, just bit down on the side of Blair's neck, his hips pumping uncontrollably as he erupted over and over. 

Awareness came back in the form of the sudden, rushing return of the scent of coffee, a wet warmth coating his fingers, and the realization that he was falling, his legs refusing to hold him any longer, until he ended up on the floor, his arms still around Blair. 

For a few long moments, they were quiet and still, Blair leaning back slightly into Jim's embrace, and Jim wished, hoped against hope, that they could just stay that way forever. 

But Blair moved, turning a little so that he could look into Jim's face. Despite the churning in his stomach, apprehension easily slipping in to the space previously taken up by post-orgasmic bliss, Jim met Blair's gaze. He noted with dread the questioning look in Blair's eyes. The rapid flashing of who/what/when/where/why that was reflected from the depths of the pools of blue. But Blair seemed to reign it in, coming to some sort of resolutions on his own. Jim saw clearly the relaxing of the younger man's features as Blair smiled the tiniest of smiles. 

"You know that we're going to have to talk about this, right?" 

Jim could only nod, closing his eyes, trying not to notice the faint smell of smoke that he knew was simply the imagined side effect of fearing that they had just burned too many bridges in too short a time. 

He felt the pressure of a strong grip on his knee, and slowly reopened his eyes. 

"I mean where you actually have to _say_ something." 

And that calmed him more than anything else Blair could have said, because it seemed so utterly normal. That push to clear the air said in earnest, but with a slight touch of humor. He nodded again, forcing himself not to look away, desperately hoping that all he felt showed plainly on his face, clearly in his eyes, insurance against the fumbling turn he knew their conversation would take later as he struggled for the right words. 

Words were the last thing on his mind when, a minute later, Blair stood up, stripping off the soiled boxers and using them to dab at himself, wiping up the creamy smears that Jim had left on his thighs. Jim stared, too grateful for the chance to even worry about the fact that his dick, still hanging out of his own shorts, was showing renewed interest. He checked Blair out, front and back, touching with his eyes, those places that his hands had so recently explored. 

Blair smiled down at him, tossing the wad of cotton in his lap, and said, "I guess these are for the laundry," before turning and walking out, heading, Jim guessed, to the bathroom. 

Jim was smiling himself as he tracked the sound of Blair's movements. He tucked his soft, sticky cock inside his shorts and closed his eyes, trying to see if he could tell that Blair was walking around naked, if there was a difference in the way the air was displaced. If he could hear the sway of Blair's cock... the cock that had made the wet spots in the shorts that he was now holding, the smell of 'Blair' filling his head. 

When he heard the whooshing of the shower starting, a wave of panic gripped him, and he squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, wondering if he would ever be able to come up with the words that would make things work. If he would be able to say the right things so that they could move on from that point without screwing up that special connection between them. 

A hand landed on his shoulder, and although he hadn't been aware of Blair's return, he wasn't startled. He leaned his head towards the comforting presence, without opening his eyes, instantly feeling the panic recede. There was a tug on his arm, and he finally looked up to see Blair holding out a hand. He let himself be helped to his feet, and Blair turned and pushed him in the direction of the bathroom, and the cool shower that was waiting. 

He dropped Blair's underwear in the hamper, before removing his own clothes, and Blair came up behind him, placing a kiss between his shoulder blades. As they got under the chilly spray, he decided that he didn't mind the heatwave at all. Then their lips touched for the first time, and he knew that he would do or say whatever it took to work things out, because there was no turning back. 

Later, as they were rinsing off, after countless kisses, another heart-stopping climax, and finally actually getting clean, Jim realized that, along with everything else, he might finally get the answer to one of the Mysteries of Life -- the secret to Blair's Great Towel Phenomenon. 

He smiled, watching as Blair arched an eyebrow, smiling back, and came to another conclusion. There'd no longer be a need for 'house drawers'. 

Naked was so much better. 

**THE END**


End file.
